


Untitled

by NishkaGray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, M/M, Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 02:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16864195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/NishkaGray
Summary: Tumblr drabble, transferred here, due to the Great Tumblr Fuckening of 2018





	Untitled

Yeah, he knows Lisa in some ways. She still smells the same, strawberries and green grass and clean skin. He knows her little smiles, he knows that look in her eyes when she wants to throttle him. The little scar on her ankle and the story behind it and how many times she brushes her hair in the mornings. She still uses the same toothpaste, has the same brand of beer in the fridge. He knows the pattern of freckles in between her breasts, he knows her little sounds, the ones that mean he’s taking too long and the ones that mean he’s moving too fast. He knows her better than any woman he’d been with and God knows he’s been with plenty. He supposes that he loves her in his own way. Loves the comfort and the stability. Not being able to drink the milk out of the carton or put his feet on the coffee table or walk around in his underwear. He can live with her rules, in some ways they make everything just a little easier.

And she knows. She knows why he has nightmares, why he drinks too much, why he goes outside to cut the grass and ends up staring into space for hours. Why some days he will not speak because there’s this thing lodged in his throat, this painful fucking thing that threatens to suffocate. She might not understand it, but she copes well. Gives him space, throws small distractions his way just in case he needs to latch on to something. He’s drowned the pain in her scent more times than he can count. But it always keeps coming back.

He knows Lisa as much as he ever will, but she will never know him at all. No one does. And it had never bothered him. Because he didn’t need people to know him, to understand him. He didn’t care. He’d always had the other half of his soul inside another breathing, grinning, beautiful human being. His whole life, as far as he could remember, he’d never been truly alone. Because somewhere in the world, near or far, the other half of his heart was beating.

Sam knew him. Sam was the scent of fire, the taste of cold beer on a summer day, the salt and the sweat, the endless highways, the soft snores in the passenger seat, Led Zeppelin playing on the radio. Every crease on his knuckles, every scar, every muscle. Dean knew every one of his facial expressions, every lip twitch, every eyebrow lift, every little sound and breath. Sam could flay him open, peal him layer by layer, turn him inside out with just one word, not even carefully selected. Because Sam was an extension of Dean and Dean was an extension of Sam and it was hard to believe that there could ever be a point where one of them ended and the other one began.

With Sam gone, it wasn’t half of his heart and soul missing. He thinks that maybe he could live with half. Maybe he could have functioned as half a being and eventually, there would be scar tissue. The half would make a whole of something, whatever it ended up being.

But when Sam jumped in the pit, he didn’t leave a half of Dean. He didn’t leave anything. Because what was Dean if not Sam’s big brother? He wasn’t drunk if Sam didn’t think he’d had too many, he wasn’t reckless if Sam wasn’t there to get mad, he wasn’t brave if Sam wasn’t there to call him an idiot for it. He wasn’t funny if Sam didn’t smile, he wasn’t solid if Sam couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t even Dean because Sam wasn’t there to say his name. What was the point of talking if Sam was not there to hear it? What was the point of living, eating, breathing, if Sam was not doing the same?

So he settled for the simple rules of no feet on the coffee table. A familiar pattern of freckles. A scent of strawberries and green grass. Even dead men needed something to hold on to.


End file.
